knights
by PhoenixWormwood137
Summary: "I wanted to give you boys a choice," Abaddon says. "We're going to play a game." Dean meets Sam's eyes - they're even rounder and more scared than before, but he doesn't seem able to speak. / whump and winchesters. rated for heavy torture and mild language.


It's only when the steel door thuds shut that Dean realizes it's a trap.

Sammy's still tied with his hands above him, feet dragging on the ground in exhaustion, on the other side of the warehouse. But where there was only empty grey floor between them a few seconds ago, there is now a woman, lipsticked and platinum-blonde, thick lashes blinking over full-black eyes.

Dean shifts his hold on his knife, fingers playing against the grip like a piano as he assesses the situation.

Demon.

Demon_s_, there's no way this chick is working alone. Like _one_ of these freaks could take on his brother.

And, in the back, Sam, still trial-wearied. Unable to keep himself on his feet. Probably been here since this morning, which is when Dean woke up to find him gone. Maybe even since late last night.

Dean tilts his head to look past the black-eyed blonde, who hasn't made a move on him. Sam doesn't look any worse than yesterday - besides sleep loss and the grey-facedness that hasn't disappeared since the night the angels fell, he looks right as rain, not a scratch or tear that shouldn't be there.

"Let my brother go," he says.

The demon laughs, and Sam's head - which hung down even when the heavy door slammed the trap shut - jerks up. His shadowed eyes meet Dean's.  
A slow, unsettling crawl of worry brushes Dean's shoulders. Sam looks scared. Scared, like, Lucifer's-here scared. Scared like dad's-on-a-hunting-trip scared.

"What'd you do to him?" Dean growls.

The demon smirks. "Oh, I haven't done anything to brother dearest here. Couldn't start the party without you, even though it was _torture_ waiting. I owe Sam one for the holy fire, and you one for the whole … head thing."

"Abaddon?"

"D'you like the suit?"

"Gorgeous," Dean spits. "What do you want with us?"

There's a flick of a nail-polished hand, and Dean is pushed up against the wall, his knife sliding away across the floor. "I wanted to give you boys a choice," Abaddon says, loud in the silence as Dean struggles to breathe against the force pinning him down. "We're going to play a game."

Dean meets Sam's eyes - they're even rounder and more scared than before, but he doesn't seem able to speak.

"Here's the playing board," she says. "You know the little town you just passed through, on your way here, Dean-o?"

"If you can call a gas station and ten houses a town," Dean chokes out.

"Those gas station and ten houses are about to be torched," Abaddon says. "And, out of interest, you've got about two hundred people living over there."

"Why would you do that?" Dean gasps. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed and thought, oh, I'm ju -"

She makes a fist and the air disappears from his throat. "Be patient, sweetheart, I haven't got to the rules."

Sam makes a sound for the first time, a muffled groan of what sounds like fear.

"Now, I can call that attack off," she says. "Easy. I pretty much run the show around here nowadays. You just gotta say the word, boys, and all this trouble will be over. Dads will get to see their babies again. Kids won't die on the playground."

Dean gulps in a breath of air. "Yeah, and what's the catch?"

"Oh, it's nothing big," she croons. "It's just that I've kind of been dying to see Sam here scream until he can't anymore. You wouldn't deny me that, would you?"

Dean's throat constricts, and he's pretty sure it's not because of Abaddon this time.

"So what you're saying is that you want me to let you torture Sam," he says.

"Or I let my cronies burn down a village, yeah," she says.

Her new smile is very white.

"Are you going to kill him?" Dean's voice is barely above a whisper.

"Oh, hell no," she says. "I can find you two jokers again. It's more fun to rip the wings off a fly if you know it'll have to live with the consequences for a little while."

"Dean," Sam says, voice very hoarse. "Don't you friggin dare."

The pressure on Dean's chest lets up, but he stays against the wall, staring at where his brother is hanging, ropes cutting the circulation from his hands, so recently forgiven and so slowly recovering from his sacrifice.

His little brother.

Abaddon pulls a short knife out of her jacket pocket. It looks awfully blunt.

His baby brother.

"Say when," Abaddon says, looking over at Dean.

She uses her blade to cut away Sam's shirt.

Flips it once.

Sticks it into the delicate skin under Sammy's ribcage.

The worst thing is, Dean knows Sam is trying to hold back the sound, to hide how much it's hurting him. But he still gasps when the knife hits his stomach, he still tries to curl in on himself, and Dean can't look. Just concentrates on the ground with his fingers pressing, white-tipped, on his forehead, hands shielding his face, trying to remember how to think.

Abaddon drags the knife out, out of that body he saved from fire, once, twice, maybe a hundred times. She probably expected that first blow to break Dean, because now she starts in in earnest: reaching up, tongue out in concentrating like she's cutting paper crafts instead of skin - delicately carving away the flesh from Sam's outstretched arms.

Dean knows he's betraying his brother by not watching.

Layer after layer she peels away, and Sam does nothing but breathe heavily, sweating feverishly in the cold breeze, stopping the sobs that claw at his throat as well as he can. They jam in his chest and he beats them down - until Abaddon goes deep enough to expose a strip of muscle to the air.

He lets a sound out by accident - a gasp of pain, an animal cry for help.

Dean looks up. It's instinct.

Abaddon and Sam both wear thick, slippery sleeves of blood, mapping down their arms. Sam's torso is also wet with red, from the drip-drip-dripping of his wounds. And this isn't hell - this won't heal tomorrow.

Dean has trouble trusting demons. He's got a bit better at it over the years, but seeing the tendons standing out on Sam's arm, strips of skin pulling back to expose them, he can't quite believe the bitch's promise about his brother's life.

She glances at Dean. Laughs. Starts on Sam's other arm.

"Leave him alone," Dean says. it's pathetic, it's weak, but honestly, something's different this time. He feels like he actually might lose Sam. Might lose him. The trials took their toll, and that's for sure, and it's like Sam's been hanging on to scraps of what he used to be since them.

There isn't a lot left to take away.

Abaddon shoves her blunt knife back into her coat, and takes out another one that looks much sharper. She runs it, almost playfully, along the full extent of Sam's less-brutalized arm, like a spool leaking red thread - and then, before Dean can even register what she's about to do, lets it bite up his shoulder and across Sam's ear. Deep. Red. Gushing.

He shrieks again.

The act is so_ inhuman_, so careless, so casual and savage.

"Okay," Dean whispers. He meant to scream it, but it's like a nightmare, his voice is muted.

Sam hears, though, from across the room, Sam hears. His eyes fly open, desperate, pleading. _Don't._

"Okay!" Dean yells. "Okay!" And Sam starts screaming, too, swearing at Dean and _begging_ him and, finally, crying, the salt dripping down his face and clearing paths through some of the smeared blood. But the demon is only listening to Dean, Dean shouting to let Sam go, to cut him down, surrendering.

She smiles so-white again.

She waves her hand, and, behind her, the rope holding Sam up snaps. He falls hard, knees hitting the concrete with an awful crack. Even before he strikes the floor, Dean is charging forward, brushing past Abaddon, who won't stop smiling, who watches Dean gather Sam up in his arms, watches Dean brush Sam's sweaty hair back with his hands, and won't stop smiling.

Dean rips off his own coat, tying it white-ring tightly just below the shoulder of Sam's injured arm to stop the blood flow. He's mumbling something, voice trembling, something about _gonna fix you up, everything's gonna be alright, keep your damn eyes open, focus on me, it's gonna be okay, gonna fix you up_, and Sam's cursing at him still, in a low, delirious murmur.

When Dean looks up, Abaddon is gone.

"_Hundreds_ of _people_," Sam says.

"Oh, screw them," Dean snarls.

Sam stiffens, pulls away from Dean's touch ever so slightly.

"No, no, man," Dean says. Sam's eyes are unfocussing, drifting away from Dean's. And he looks scared. "No. Sammy. Sammy! Hate me all you want, but you gotta let me take care of you, kay?"

Sam groans, but Dean can feel him loosen slightly against him.

Dean is still wearing a jacket over his tee-shirt, and, careful not to disturb Sam's slumped body, he shrugs this extra layer off. Goosebumps flash across his arms at a sudden chill breeze, and, unprompted, the image of Lucifer rubbing a pitchfork design on a frozen window springs to his mind.

He wishes he had something to keep Sam warm.

He's got to stop the bleeding, though, so he does the war-movie thing and tears his jacket up into bandages that will have to do for now, until they can move.

Except Sam's not moving.

Dean doesn't know what to do. The hot, bitter anger that comes with helplessness burns like acid reflux in his throat, and his fingers wander helplessly over Sam's head, through his hair, stroking away the fear.

"Stay with me," he says. "Sam? You hear me, Sam?"

Sam doesn't reply.

"Sammy! I need you to stay awake for me."

Sam nods slightly, face digging into Dean's shoulder.

Dean loosens his coat from around Sam's arm, and rubs it to get the blood flowing again. It goes against every instinct he has - get him bleeding again? - but he heard something about how you can lose a limb if the blood doesn't get to it enough, and he's not risking crap like that. After a minute, he re-ties it, and takes Sam's face in his hands, and wishes he knew how to check for internal bleeding.

That thought makes him want to choke on panic, though, so he lets Sam's head fall back his shoulder, and reaches for his cell phone, in his back pocket.

The police will be in disarray, with two hundred dead nearby, but Dean dials 9-1-1 anyway.

"What is your emergency?"

His voice isn't shaking, but he feels like he'll throw up. "Hello, I need an ambulance. My brother's been hurt."

"And where are you located?"

Dean drops a colourful swear word, he doesn't know the streets in this area well. "Big old wearhouse about 20 miles from Brookside," he says. "On the highway."

"What are the injuries in question?"

"Stabbing," Dean says. "And other stuff. I think he's going to bleed to death. He's hardly even conscious. Please."

He gives the operator his phone number and they tell him to keep the victim awake and that they're on the way, and then he hangs up and just holds Sam. Tells him what they told him, that he's gotta keep his eyes open, that he's gotta stay awake.

Sam drifts in and out.

Mostly out.

"Talk to me," Dean prods.

Sam's breathing is uneven, and for a long string of seconds, Dean isn't even sure if he's ever gonna respond. But he manages to suck in enough for a dry-throated whisper.

"Jerk," he says.


End file.
